


The Pickpocket from Cork

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Historical, Edwardian Age, First Time, M/M, Prostitution, Romance, potentially implied underage (16)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 08:00:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gwaine's new valet has a colourful past, one's that got to appeal to Gwaine's sense of the outrageous. But no sooner has the relationship between master and servant solidified that it's threatened by a seemingly harmless Christmas party invitation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A day in the Slums

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> For Deminos, I hope this comes somewhat near to what you wanted, though it's not Regency. I hope you have a lovely festive season.
> 
> Thanks to Asya-ana for the beta!

_Cork, 1908_

Before leaving the tailor, Gwaine calls over his shoulder, “Thinking about it, I'll have three of those in different colours!”

“Come by in two weeks, my lord, and your shirts will be ready.”

The bells tinkle as the shop door slips closed behind Gwaine.

This errand run, Gwaine sets off at a brisk pace towards Barracks Street with a view to meet Mab. For a few sweet shillings she can make your nights interminable and worthy of remembrance. The girl has flair. In this particular case Gwaine is in for an afternoon in heaven.

As he advances towards his destination, crowded footpaths busy with horse-drawn traffic give way to less imposing streets. Businesses become more and more modest. Canopies no longer shade the window displays of the shops lining the streets, nor do the infinitely smaller shop windows showcase their wares to the same advantage.

The streets grow progressively smaller and darker, danker. As he nears Barrack Street, sunlight doesn't penetrate. There is no pavement and pathways are so small you can't help but walk in the middle of the street and waddle on in the mud heaped dead centre. The lanes are a little over a metre wide. Streets intersecting the other in a network of dead ends. As if that wasn't stifiling enough, tenement buildings crowd each other, like grapes on a vine, only with no natural beauty charm to dispose of.

Women sit at their doors, knitting, huddling under big ratty shawls that have seen better days, their children playing in puddles, going shoeless and often barefoot.

Shoe-shines advertise their services while boys sell copies of the evening newspapers. Most passers-by ignore them.

Gwaine throws smiles at the ladies, even the old ones missing a tooth or six, and ruffles the boys' heads, putting a coin in their hands when they turn their big eyes on him.

He's halfway into the heart of this bevy of streets, when he he hears gargling sounds and raised voices. Gwaine hurries in the direction the noises issue from.

The image that presents itself is certainly arresting. A ruddy man is holding a slim slip of a boy by the neck. He appears to be strangling him, fingers digging dip into a stretch of neck covered in grime. The boys eyes are wide with evident fear.

Long seconds elapse. Gwaine wastes them being surprised that such an occurrence is taking place in broad daylight and in a little street that tends to be busy with crowds of urchins. They might not help in such a predicament but surely they make for keen-eyed witnesses. What sort of robber would take action in such a situation? Never mind that, the victim is struggling for what seems to be his last breath. That being the case, Gwaine can no longer dawdle. He intervenes, striding towards the duo with firm, decisive steps. “Let the boy go!” he orders the man who has the youth in his grip.

The ruddy man, clearly a robber of the lowest order, looks up with a start, his eyes bulging.

As Gwaine approaches, the young thug shifts his gagging victim so that the poor boy's body stands between the robber and Gwaine.

“No need to step in, my lord,” the robber says in a gritty voice. “This is a private quarrel.”

“I don't think this is a quarrel at all,” Gwaine says, stating the obvious. “I think you're robbing this poor lad.”

The rogues sounds vicious and exasperated both when he says, “Get any closer and I swear I'll snap this little bastard’s neck.”

“You just do that,” Gwaine says, assessing the situation to the best of his ability, “and I'll snap yours right next.” Gwaine's boxing days are not so long over that he can't back that threat up. He lets it be known. “I'm fully capable of that. Perhaps this will ring a bell: I used to be known as the White Phantom.”

At the mention of Gwaine's ring nickname the rogue blanches. “You're a gent, you can't be an underground prize fighter.”

“I like to live my life on the edge,” Gwaine says, pouring all the swagger and bravado he's been known for during his wilder years in his voice and manner. “Want to try me?”

After a moment consideration, the rogue releases his hold on the lad and flings him right into Gwaine's arms, then he sprints off, taking the alley at a run, and disappears at the bend, swallowed by darkness.

Gwaine's arms strain to hold up the lad who's been so precipitously thrown into them. Though lanky, and willowy – bones at his collars and ankles showing-- the boy isn't so light as Gwaine had first expected. If anything, the boy is dragging him down in the muck covering the road too. “Hey, lad,” Gwaine says, as the lad in question clings to him with octopus arms, “are you all right?”

“Yes,” the lad says with a feeble voice made rough by the strangling attempt. “Yes. Thank you for saving my neck.”

Gwaine tries to help the boy right himself. In the attempt, they slip and slide a few times before the lad is vertical and not using Gwaine as a prop. “Hey, you looked like you needed the help.”

“Yes, well,” the lad says, fingering the bruises that cover his neck. “I did. Nothing of the kind ever happened to me before. I don't know how to repay you.”

Gwaine gives the boy a once-over. Under the the layers of grime and the tatters that clothe him, the lad looks like he's famished. All skin and bone and little else. He can't repay Gwaine for his services. Even if Gwaine wanted to – which is absurd – the boy's not likely to ever repay anything ever. But there is something he can do for Gwaine

In spite of the state he's in, dirty and wearing rags, the lad has the potential to be truly ravishing. You don't run into blue eyes like that every day; that kind of spark Gwaine has only encountered once in a blue moon. When presented with beauty like that, Gwaine knows only of one response. “A smile from you would be thanks enough.”

The boy flashes him a toothy grin that gives him dimples. “Thank you, sir.”

“Are you sure you don't need me to take you to a doctor?” Gwaine asks, remembering the marks on this boy's neck and how he was half-choked by a guy who, though not taller, looked brawnier than him.

“Yes, sir,” the boy says, his grin not faltering in the least. “Thanks to your intervention, I'm right as rain.”

“Then allow me to get a drink into you,” Gwaine says, captivated by the boy's easy charm. Besides, something warm would do him good.

The boy shakes his head. “It wouldn't do for the likes of you to be seen with me in a public place.” The boy's eyes rove up Gwaine's body. “But thank you, sir.”

Gwaine's about to say 'wait', when the boy takes a bow and disappears, scampering off in the direction taken by the rogue who'd attacked him.

Seeing as he can do nothing more to help, Gwaine shrugs his shoulders and resumes walking. Though thoughts of the lad surface from time to time Gwaine manages to quash them. He has much to look forward to this evening. Mab is certainly second to none, even the boy can't be as lovely as her. Surely... In good time Gwaine makes it to Madame Rose, who welcomes him with too ingratiating a smile.

“Mab is waiting for you upstairs, my l--” she starts, then bites her tongue. “She's waiting for you, sir.”

Gwaine doffs his hat at her.

Mab greets him by jumping him, her mouth on his and her legs around him. “Oh, how I've missed you.”

Gwaine doesn't believe her words. He knows full well that she reserves similar ones for other men. But the turn of her eyelashes is alluring, catching the light like fire, and the smell of her skin is heady. It's perfume, he realises, but it's the kind of scent that matches and enhances hers. “Flatterer,” he says, laying her down on the bed, her chemise slipping down her shoulders as he lowers her.

As his hands roam up her leg, their mouths meet in a kiss.

*****

Panting, grinning, Mab rolls off him. “You're always so good.”

“I expect you say that to all your gentlemen,” Gwaine says, smiling at the ceiling, sated and boneless.

“No,” Mab says, walking her fingers up his chest. “I only use that line on my very best customers.”

Gwaine bursts out laughing, loving Mab's sincerity in acknowledging her use of obvious wiles.

“It was my pleasure,” he says, wagging his eyebrows.

Mab bites her fist but she ends up squealing with laughter all the same.

Reluctantly, feeling as though he'd rather let his body liquefy into the mattress, Gwaine pushes off the bed. Under Mab's watchful, intent gaze – a gaze that sparks hot flame at the base of his spine – Gwaine picks up his clothes and starts dressing. It's when he picks up his jacket that he notices. It's much lighter than it ought to be. Gwaine paws at the fabric.

“Lost something?” Mab asks with an arch lift of her eyebrows.

“You won't believe me,” Gwaine says, even though he must acknowledge the truth, “but I think I ran afoul of a pickpocket.”

“A pickpocket?” Mab asks, rolling the word off her tongue with a measure of glibness. “In the slums? Really?”

“Yes,” Gwaine says, ignoring Mab's sarcasm and shrugging the much lighter jacket on. “I ran into a couple of...” He should say ruffians, since they’d played him so well, but he can't quite. He can't bring himself to call the boy with the toothy grin a ruffian. “Urchins. I thought one was attacking the other so I stepped in, but it was clearly a ruse.”

“One was attacking the other?” Mab sits up, the sheet slipping off her chest and revealing pert breasts and rosy nipples. “In what way?”

“One had the other in a choke hold like this.” Gwaine mimes the accident. Now that he thinks about it, it was odd that that scrap of a boy whose trousers were so short and so frayed they didn't cover his ankles could be robbed. What of? The soles that barely stuck to his shoes?

Mab sniggers. “Oh, that would be Will and Merlin. They're pickpockets all right. That's their thing.”

Gwaine's heartbeat escalates. He should probably laugh it off as Mab is doing, but from the moment he hears Mab identify the thieves, he knows he can't put the accident behind him. “Oh so you know them?”

“Yeah,” Mab says, worrying her twitching lip. “Will's a bit older and comes here often. Merlin... I don't know much about him aside from him being a country lad.”

Now that Gwaine thinks about it the 'lad' looked like and sounded like one. “But you've met him too?”

“In passing,” Mab concedes. “He's come here once or twice.”

“For sex?” Gwaine asks, the thought mollifying his bones in a way it shouldn't.

“Lad's sixteen, I think,” Mab says with undertones that are pure filth. “Old enough to be taught how to please a gal...”

“You sound as though you did some of that teaching,” Gwaine says, wondering if he's hit on the truth.

“Not me,” Mab says, with a nonchalant lift of her shoulders. “Merlin's very... outgoing but at the same time... not. He's hard to get a reading on, so most girls don't go near, a dear as he is.”

“Tell me more,” Gwaine asks, pricking his ears even as he does the laces of his shoes up.

“Sometimes he comes with his friend to have a drink--”

“And pays for them with the money he nicks, obviously,” Gwaine interjects, with a cynical twist of his lips.

“And he'll sit there nursing a pint he doesn't drink till the end of the night,” Mab continues. “But I've never seen him go up with one of the girls, though he must have.”

“He must have,” Gwaine repeats, not knowing whether he's angered by the thought or diverted by the situation. It takes some cheek to do what the lad's done. Him and his companion. “And can you tell me where I can find this Merlin?”

Mab scoops her hair over her shoulder. “Surely you don't need to get your money back from them to pay me?”

“No,” Gwaine says, admitting a truth that might be tacit but that they're both aware of. He's got more money than he can spend in a lifetime. “But I'd like to have a word with the miscreant. If only to doff my hat at him. Boy had me.”

Mab narrows her eyes. “You're not setting the coppers on them, are you? They're really starving... They have nothing, those boys.”

Gwaine hoots. “Who do you take me for? You know my past.”

“Yes, but, you've reformed.”

“The few upright friends that got me out of my past scrapes haven't turned me into an upstanding member of society yet.” Gwaine taps his chest proudly. “I'm still the miscreant I was.”

“Fighting bare knuckled.” Mab laughs. “That's my man.”

“I'll here remind you I was a big champion of the Irish Stand Down,” Gwaine says to let her see how he and types like Merlin do share an instinct that's made them defy society.

“I shouldn't snitch.”

“Come on, Mab, I even like the boy,” Gwaine says, not lying at all. “It takes a kind of foolhardy courage to pull a con in broad daylight. I admire that.”

Mab sighs and leaves the bed. In tremulous, tentative letters, she traces an address on a rough scrap of paper. “Here,” she says, handing Gwaine the slip. “But promise you won't do anything to hurt the boys.”

“I promise,” Gwaine says, tugging on his clothes to make himself presentable. Not that he need be where he's going.

“Truly, Gwaine,” Mab says, putting a hand on his chest, coincidentally where his heart is. “You may have dabbled in our world, but you don't really know what going hungry means.”

Gwaine kisses Mab's cheek. “I'll try and remember that, my lady.”

“So smooth.”

Gwaine pockets the billet and leaves Mab to herself.

*****

The tenement is squat and ramshackle, sitting between Friary Lane and French's Quay. It opens onto a dead alleyway on the back and the road at the front. The odd contrast of sunshine and shadow, light and dark, highlights the qualities of the airless, lightless building.

Some of the windows dotting the façade are lacking in glass and covered with cardboard. Cracks run along the length of the walls. Rot and mould eats at their base, spreading in irregular stains mushrooming this way and that.

When Gwaine takes the stairs up the treads creak under his weight. Catching himself on the banister doesn't help because it comes right off. “Fuck,” says Gwaine, dropping his hand. He sucks at a splinter that embeds itself in his thumb. “Fuck it.”

He clears the stairs at a jog and finds a semi-open door on the landing. It leads into a square windowless room whose walls are washed grey. A spider is dangling from the ceiling, clearly intent on taking a pause in its weawing. There are no proper bed frames in this space but there is bedding on the floor. A rickety cupboard that's missing a door and looking like some bourgeois household cast-off sits squat in the middle of the room. Crates serve as stables and stands.

On a short square one the boy sits, the one with the beautiful smile, counting coins. “Is that the fruit of your robberies?”

The boy starts upright, knocking off the crate and sending the coins flying. When he whirls around to face Gwaine, he says, “Oh, it's you.”

“Yes, it's me,” Gwaine says, nodding at the money.

The boy searches the room with his eyes. Gwaine bets he's seeking a way out of it. In the absence of windows and with Gwaine barring the exit, there's nowhere he can go. “Look, mate, I--”

“You're a good actor,” Gwaine says, wanting to see what the boy does.

“I'll repay you,” Merlin says, quick as if he's considering alternatives and only coming up with that. “Just not now. We have to pay the rent. It's up next week. We'll repay you the one after that.”

Gwaine is sure the lad's penury isn't a lie though he's not positive he believes the story about the rent. “You must see why I tend not to believe what comes out of your mouth, Merlin.”

“Yes, well, it's the truth.”

“Do you even know what that is?” Gwaine asks, a smile culling the sarcasm.

“Yes, approximately.”

Gwaine sniggers. “Well, I've got you now.”

“Yes, you did find me. So you asked around after me?” Merlin says, rolling his shoulders belligerently. “I really thought you would run home and never be seen in the slums again.”

“You chose the wrong fella,” says Gwaine, crossing his arms.

“Now you're going to say you're one of us because you worked up the guts to come here and claim your property?”

Gwaine opens his mouth and then closes it. Tonight there'll be an ample dinner waiting for him at home, served by maids Gwaine keeps on wanting to dismiss but that he retains because otherwise they'll have no job. So he isn't going to voice any thought similar to that. “No. But I'm going to say I understand that not all people live under the same circumstances.”

“Well, then,” Merlin says as though he thought Gwaine would argue the point, “then you'll see how I need the money.”

“Yeah, that I do.” Gwaine's been in a lot of run down places but this one certainly takes the cake in terms of squalor. “Still doesn't negate the fact that you owe me.”

“I could say that you have too much anyway, sir,” Merlin says, trying a grin on for size. “And that you should share with the poor, like the socialists think.”

“Into politics, are you?” Gwaine says, wondering how a lad of sixteen who sounds like a farm just spat him out can know of theories like redistribution of wealth.

“Yeah.” Merlin nods and his cheeky grin makes a reappearance. “I've listened to speeches and been to a rally.”

“Of course you have.”

Merlin's eyes lose some of their sparkle. “Now don't be patronising.”

Gwaine nods his head; perhaps he overshot the mark. “I won't be if you give me what you owe me.”

Merlin regards the coins scattered all over the floor. “It isn't untrue that I owe you, I suppose.” The breath rolls out of his chest. “But--”

“Hey, don't backtrack now that we have extracted some logic from you.”

“Ass.”

“You're getting to know me.”

“I have a sixth sense for people,” Merlin says, with a challenge in his eye.

“And I have a sixth sense for mediation,” Gwaine deadpans. “That means I know how you'll repay me.”

“I won't do anything,” Merlin says, lifting an eyebrow, his gaze encompassing Gwaine's. “Like sexual stuff... for you.”

Gwaine is quick to take up the hint. “As pretty as you are, I'm asking for nothing like that. And promise never to.” Gwaine feels he must reassure Merlin given the position they're both in. He likes having his fun pulling people's tails but there's always a limit. “I'm asking for your services.”

“That's a joke, right?”

“No, my man,” Gwaine says, stalking up to Merlin and grabbing him by the arm. “I'm indenturing you as my valet because I need one. As of now you owe me two months employment, for free.”

“But I didn't steal that much.”

“Oh, I'm fining you for the bother.” Gwaine drags Merlin to the door.

“But that's unfair,” Merlin protests, digging his heels in.

“Well, pickpocketing is equally unfair,” Gwaine says, with as much nonchalance as he can summon. “So--” He pushes the lad, who's putting up resistance, out of the door -- "You'll have to ply your hand at an honest trade."

 

**** 

The first two weeks Merlin proves to be the most reluctant – if prettiest – valet Gwaine has ever had the pleasure to have in his service. While it's true that he must be taught everything – and Gwaine's pretty blasé about rules – it's also true that Merlin keeps sabotaging him, acting contrary at every bend in the road.

He makes a big show of ticking days off the calendar, of reminding Gwaine that his slavery, as he calls it, will soon be over, and he often pulls pranks. He burns shirts he says he wanted to iron and makes bug eyes at him when Gwaine laughingly reminds him that the maids are there to accomplish that task and that he needn't have. He shrinks two pairs of excellent trousers and makes sure to forget items every time Gwaine needs to get dressed to go out -- be it a cravat, a handkerchief, or a collar. 

Every time that happens, Gwaine grins and says, “Let's shock those society matrons! I'll go without.”

Merlin's lips twitch and Gwaine spies the hint of one of his grins. “I should forget your trousers next time.”

“I've been known to wander about trouser-less,” Gwaine says, wanting to gauge Merlin's reaction. “Ask my Cambridge pals.”

“That'll never happen,” Merlin says, brushing at the shoulders of his morning jacket with a brush that's too spiky for the job. “Will it? I'll never meet your friends.”

If there is one of the thing Merlin never fails it's reminding Gwaine that their contract has an expiry date; once Merlin has repaid Gwaine, he will be gone.

 

*****

 

Despite his contrariness, Merlin proves to be not too bad at being a companion of sorts. When he's in the mood – not sullen just out of a will to prove to Gwaine that he won't stay – he's a chatterbox. Unlike real trained valets, like his friend Arthur's George, Merlin has no sense of propriety. This quality fits Gwaine to a T, for it allows Merlin to address Gwaine as though they're old friends.

And that's what Gwaine seeks in the people he daily deals with.

In the right state of mind, Merlin will pass sarcastic remarks that make Gwaine bend over with laughter and make pointed comments Gwaine appreciates for their rapier wit. At other times Merlin can also be sweeter, especially when questions about subjects like friends, family and loyalty are voiced.

On top of all that Merlin's pretty friendly with those of the staff that don't envy him his sudden rise to the position, namely the country lads and gals that share the same origins as him.

It's with more than a fair modicum of chagrin that Gwaine notes that Merlin's two months are almost up.

 

****

Gwaine is writing a letter to Arthur, the lamp in his study throwing some tremulous light over the page, when Merlin bursts in.

“I need money.”

Gwaine puts his pen down. “Doesn't half of Cork?”

“Will's mum is dying,” Merlin says, with tears in his eyes, his fists balled up. “Please, I'm not lying, I wouldn't lie.”

“I know you aren't,” Gwaine says, incapable of making this a joke the way he'd thought to when Merlin burst in. “I can tell.”

“I need five hundred pounds,” Merlin says, taking a step forward. “I realise that that's a lot, but without an operation and a stay in hospital she'll die like my mum did. That's a year's wage, right? I talked to the footman and he says it is.” Merlin squares his shoulders. “I'm ready to work for free, for a year, if you give me that.”

“Merlin,” Gwaine tries to put a word in.

“I swear I won't run away, after,” Merlin says, worrying his lip bloody. “And I know my word has no value but I think you're brave enough to dare believe in someone like me and...”

“Merlin, there's no need for you to work for free,” Gwaine says, rooting in his drawer in his search for his pocketbook. “You can have the money and you can leave when your two months is up.”

“I'll do the work,” Merlin says. “I owe you already.”

 

****

 

As it turns out Merlin gets the money, of course he does, and works for him for a twelve-month, exactly as he vowed he would.

He even makes an attempt at being a better valet, not forgetting essentials such as cuff-links or cravats anymore, even though he's still bad at most of his duties.

On the other hand Gwaine has a feeling the bond between them is solidifying.

The longer Merlin stays, the more he opens up. Merlin, Gwaine learns, isn't secretive by nature. He was only made so by the position he was in, being a pickpocket likely to be hauled to prison if his goings on were discovered. Perhaps all those socialist theories Merlin likes to repeat and that Gwaine finds himself willing to read about for the first time – reading not being Gwaine's pastime of choice – aren't wrong. Opportunities do matter, irrespective of birth, a notion Gwaine's always entertained even though he's never looked into formulating it with words that would actually make sense.

He and Merlin have long chats about that.

Health-wise too Merlin improves. He becomes stronger, puts on some little weight even though he always seems in danger of losing it, like a lot of gangly boys his age.

It's under Gwaine's roof that Merlin shoots up even more. With proper nutrition, better living quarters, and a job that keeps him active and out of the nick, Merlin grows into the man he's supposed to be. He gets taller than Gwaine. And though he retains that lean, almost scrawny build characteristic of the first days of their acquaintance, his shoulders widen and he gets a wiriness to him that speaks of strength if not of mass.

He is, in short, lovely to behold, soft and hard in the way only a lad of seventeen can be. The softness is all there in the delicacy of his mouth, the light in his eyes – hopeful – while the hardness is evident in the long lines of Merlin's body, all bone and little else, the sharp angles that make him up.

If Gwaine were a poet he'd probably find the words to define this idea of his. As it is, he just looks. And if at times he looks too long and a measure of longing for the lad springs in his heart, he just reminds himself of the promise he once made Merlin, that he'd never ask for his body, and then he's content with the status quo.

 

****

A year passes like a tide. The trees around the estate shed their leaves, their boughs freeze and a blanket of snow covers the drive. The snow melts and the winds diminish. Flowers burst into bloom covering the countryside around in a carpet that's like a rainbow. The brook sings; the sun starts warming skin and before they know it, summer is on them.

When the copses around the property turn a burnished yellow, Gwaine decides to go out into the garden. He means to enjoy the last of the sun's warmth before winter sets in again, scourging the land with its high gales and the kind of frost that sets deep in your bones. A scarf around his neck, he's sunning himself, lying sprawled on the still fragrant grass, when Merlin stomps up to him.

“I've been in your employ for a year,” he announces, as if Gwaine didn't know.

Gwaine's heart shrinks to the size of a little lonely pebble. “I bet you've come to say you want out.”

“No,” Merlin says, eyes on the horizon, which in this case means the copse that shades the house from view. “I want to say.” A big breath whooshes out of Merlin. “I like it here, I don't particularly want to rob people for a living and I like you. I'm staying.”

Merlin says that with all the brashness of his seventeen years of age. To that Gwaine can respond in only one way, that being laughter.

The sound of it hasen't faded yet when Merlin asks, “I suppose you no longer want me underfoot now. You'll want someone skilled, of course.”

“Don't be silly, Merlin,” Gwaine says, pushing his head back into the grass so he can have an unimpeded though upside-down view of his valet. “You know I love having you here. More than I can say.”

“Thank you, My Lord,” Merlin says, and with a grin he skips off to re-enter the house.

Gwaine rests his head on his arms and sighs. Promises to keep, promises to keep.


	2. Avalon Park

_Nov 11th 1910,_

_Avalon Park_

_Dear Gwaine,_

_Your letter of Oct 22nd found me on my return here from London quite late in the night so it's only now that I put pen to paper. The last few months have been hectic so it's with pleasure that I find a moment to myself to sit down and write. I do apologise for my lateness in responding, however._

_As you may suspect, after Father's death, the amount of paperwork I've had to deal with has increased tenfold. That has unfortunately contributed to my tardiness in replying to some of my more personal mail. I felt that, in dealing with friends, I could postpone answering, trusting that I would find forgiveness among the people who know me better._

_In your September note, you asked how the funeral was. All the relatives who were able came over as well as most of Father's society acquaintances. The entire affair was stately and somewhat pompous, but very proper. You'd probably say it was very English. Father, if he could have seen it, would have approved._

_As much as I butted heads with him on matters of a personal nature, I can't help but be happy that that's the case. Cousin Morgana may have frowned upon the whole event and I may have had to stomach individuals I wouldn't otherwise have, but I feel like the ceremony was what it should have been. It was what Father would have wanted._

_Still, the household hasn't been the same since and neither has Morgana. The servants are silent. They walk with their heads down and hardly say a word. I fear this is partly a misplaced show of respect towards me as the heir and partly in fear of the future. They're probably wondering whether I'll sell the estate, as such a big house is too big for a bachelor with no intention of marrying. Morgana, too, is more upset than she care to admit. For all her defiance of my father and for all her failing to accept his stance on various issues, she was fond of him. And she's clearly missing head-butting with him too._

_Something is needed to cheer them all up. For this very reason I decided to have a Christmas party here, at Avalon Park, a party of the kind my father would have hosted. There'll be hunting, a feast on Christmas Eve and, for those who are of a mind, carols on the following morning._

_Our Cambridge friends will be present. I've already secured Leon and Geraint's participation. Lancelot might come as well. As you'll have guessed, I'm extending the invitation to you too, you scapegrace. I can think of no better person to bring cheer with him than you._

_Don't bother with a return of post, just get yourself here. I'm sure your Irish estate is going to be pretty dull now that the weather has taken a turn for the worse, so your coming will put a solution to that._

_Mithian Nemeth, the American heiress, is also going to be here. I hope her presence can constitute enticement enough._

_Yours truly,  
Arthur Pendragon_

 

Arthur sees the cloud of fumes first. They rise up towards the sky, hiding and curling behind the canopy of trees. It's when the car clears the avenue of poplars and takes the drive leading up to the house that Arthur identifies the Mitchell Special. He could have told who the driver was by the make of the vehicle, American and brand new, and the pilot's dashing way of steering. Only Gwaine would shake up the parish with such reckless racing. When the automobile's close enough, Arthur even spots a second, unknown passenger.

With a cloud of dust, the car comes to a halt at the mouth of the drive.

The servants surrounding Arthur take a step back as though the car is going to roll into motion and run them over all by itself. The exception are the younger ones, who look at the bright blue paint job of the Mitchell Special with great admiration.

Cabal barks, definitely less content with the noise.

Arthur pats his head and watches as Gwaine and a young man carrying two portmanteaus step out of the Mitchell.

In great strides, Gwaine bounds over to him, pulling his goggles up and clapping both hands flat on Arthur's shoulders, “Hello, princess,” he says as boisterously as he can. “It's been such a long time.”

“Three years,” Arthur says, only to be distracted by Gwaine's man dropping the bags.

“Sorry,” the clumsy servant says, grinning up at Gwaine with a familiarity that makes Arthur take pause. “Sorry, I didn't get a proper hold on these.”

“Oh, Arthur,” Gwaine says, letting go of Arthur to grab his own portmanteau. “This is Merlin, my valet.”

“Your valet?” Arthur repeats, more than a little stunned. Gwaine dismissed so many and ended up going without so often that Arthur doesn't know how to take the news of him finally having latched onto one.

“Yes,” Gwaine says at the same time the young valet in question beams at Arthur and says, “Hello.”

All of Arthur's servants glare in the way of servants everywhere; they won’t speak up but they'll let you know they don't approve. Their eyes are burning holes in Arthur's neck. Acting as though he isn't conscious of that, Arthur clears his throat. “It's a pleasure, Mr...”

Merlin doesn't understand the hint and extends his hand for Arthur to shake. Indignation bristles up Arthur's spine, until that is, he looks up from the hand so casually offered and sees bright blue eyes the colour of a summer storm and features that should by all rights be unpleasant in their irregularity if they didn't appear enticing to Arthur. “Emrys.”

Under Gwaine's watchful gaze, Arthur takes Merlin's hand to shake. It lasts but a second; it's enough to send a thrill up Arthur's spine. He steps back, heartbeat sounding in his ears. In an effort to quieten it, he turns his gaze to Gwaine. “So, are you staying the full week?”

“Yes,” Gwaine says, inhaling hard. “Country air, good food, some hunting. I'll even stay into the new year, if you'll allow.”

“Of course, I'll allow,” Arthur says, leading Gwaine into the house. “We need someone to shake us all up.”

“Are you implying I'm generally a nuisance?” Gwaine asks, grinning at him.

“You know I would, most definitely,” Arthur says, falling back into the banter typical of their university days. “But not in this case.”

“Um, Gwaine,” Merlin makes himself heard. “Where do I take your stuff?”

This time a collective gasp from the body of Arthur's servants resounds in the great hall.

Gwaine, though, isn't affected by it. He seems to be used to Merlin's shortcomings as a valet, for he doesn't even tell his servant off; rather he produces a big smile and the words, “Just have them tell you which room they've given me and then you're set.”

Merlin's answering smile is so sweet it unsettles Arthur. “Oh, all right, thanks, Gwaine.”

Alice, who's always been a gem of a housekeeper, takes Merlin under her wing by saying, “I'll show you the servants' stairs.

Arthur ushers Gwaine into the drawing room.

 

***** 

 

“Good port,” Gwaine says, swirling his glass.

Arthur puts the glass stopper back on the decanter. “I broke it out for you.”

“If I was a polite person I'd say you shouldn't have.” Gwaine takes a sip of the wine. “But I'm not, so I'll tell you that you couldn't have had a brighter idea.”

“Just try not to get drunk before the other guests arrive,” Arthur says, sitting in the armchair opposite Gwaine's and patting Cabal on the head.

“When are they due?”

“Lancelot and Leon are arriving together,” Arthur says. “That I know of they're taking the midday train from London tomorrow.”

“What about Geraint and the ladies?”

“They should turn up tomorrow too but in the morning,” Arthur says, filling Gwaine in on the latest information about Morgana and Mithian. For different reasons they're all slated to appear at the same time. “Thankfully, Morgause, that's...”

“Morgana's newly found sister,” Gwaine says, revealing a knowledge of Arthur's extended family Arthur didn't suspect him to be cognizant of.

“Yes.” Arthur signals his assent with a head motion “Who told you?”

“Irish ladies do tattle,” says Gwaine, finishing his glassful. “And they mostly care about what goes on in London, after all. Blood or no, Cork doesn't seem to appeal to them.”

“A' propos Ireland,” Arthur asks. “Do you find you fit in better this time?”

Gwaine chuckles. It's the same boisterous sound Gwaine's always made but there's an edge to it that speaks of discomfort with the subject. “A man like me? Do you really think that?”

“And yet you've managed to stay in Ireland for a longer spell than usual,” Arthur observes, watching the wine swing into his glass as he tilts it this way and that. “Nearly two full years.”

“Yes, well, sometimes exciting things do happen even in County Cork.”

Arthur clucks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, a tightness coming over his skin that's uncomfortable and makes him shift. “Has it got anything to do with that valet of yours who clearly wasn't trained to be a valet?”

“Merlin?” Gwaine hoots. “How could it possibly be?”

Arthur licks his lips, his voice coming out of him more clipped than necessary. “You know how.”

Gwaine shakes his head but doesn't provide any answers, not in any way that grants Arthur an insight into his relationship with his valet. “Well, I do love how your mind works, that's for sure. And to think you like to pretend that you're a boring staid Englishman.”

“I may be an Englishman,” Arthur says, pique making his tongue run away with him, “but I'll have you know that I'm neither staid nor boring.”

Gwaine just smirks.

Arthur's choosing his next words carefully when the butler steps in. “A telegram for you, Your Grace.”

“Thank you, Gaius,” Arthur says, setting his glass on the side table. “I'll be downstairs shortly.”

 

***** 

 

That evening Arthur runs into Gwaine's valet right where he shouldn't. The boy's racing up the stairs, an evening jacket draped over his arm, a clothes brush in his hand.

Arthur stops right in his tracks, his hand on the banister. “You do realise you should have taken the servants' stairs?”

Merlin stops too, nearly tripping but catching himself before he does. Once he's righted himself, he looks over his shoulders, then back at Arthur. He does that out of such wide eyes anybody would be at pains to reprimand him. “I, er, yeah, but at Marston I take the normal stairs all the time. It saves time and Gwaine likes that.”

Arthur stiffens, his hand curling around the whorls that go into forming the banister frieze. “Lord Boyle may allow such freedoms – his choice – but I don't.”

“There's no reason to be so rude about that,” Merlin says, standing taller. He's in his shirtsleeves, a dark leather band clamping the fabric at the arm, underlining how thin he is and not at all fearsome. It doesn't matter to him though because he just squares his shoulders and acts as though he's about to warm up for a fight. “My Lord.”

“It's Your Grace because...” Arthur trails off, realising sadly belatedly that what he's saying is perfectly useless. Merlin doesn't care.

“That's the problem, isn't it?” Merlin says, eyes keen with fire. “All those titles, they're signs of respect. But respect should be earned.”

“Evidently,” says Arthur, too stunned by Merlin's address to form a cohesive argument, Cambridge Logic lessons be damned, “you're implying I deserve none.”

“I think they shouldn't be a given because of your birth.”

“Done much reading, have you?” Arthur asks, hearing a simplified echo of theories he knows of even though he doesn't agree with them. He'd rather talk about that than Merlin's defiance of him. As wrongly as it sits with him, he doesn't want to raise a quarrel.

“I'm starting,” Merlin says. “I could read before, as a kid. Gwaine's helped me with the bigger words though.”

Arthur nods. “In your free time, you can have access to the library.”

Merlin's mouth slowly opens. “Thank you,” he says.

Arthur's bypassed him when he halts and, without turning, adds, “And, Emrys, it works both ways. You earn respect by doing your work well and abiding by its rules.”

A smile tugging at his lips, Arthur jogs down the stairs before Merlin can form a retort.

 

**** 

 

Dinner on the first day is as quiet as Gwaine's presence can make it. Even though it's just the two of them the cook has made more courses than they can digest by themselves. Arthur suspects that it's because it's been a while since she's been ordered to prepare dinner for anyone other than Arthur and she's consequently gone a little crazy. To season the food they turn to alcohol. It also makes it easier to settle back into the old rhythms of their friendship. It's been that long.

“To Cambridge,” Arthur says, raising his wine glass for a toast.

“Oh, yes.” Gwaine matches him, lifting his own glass. They both knock down the alcohol more quickly than is advisable. “To the old days when we were fetter free and never entertained a thought of tomorrow.”

With more bitterness than he ought display, Arthur says, “Fetters, you?”

“We all have our shackles,” Gwaine says, though Arthur can't fathom what they are. Unlike Arthur, Gwaine is free to do pretty much as he pleases. His parents both dead and him the heir to a substantial fortune, he's the maker of his own destiny. He doesn't even love his estate or care about his inheritance. During their younger days Gwaine pretended to be anything but what he was, trying to pass off as a commoner, striking up relationships that were below him and friendships that were even more questionable.

Arthur has Morgana to think about as well as some ninety people who look to him for the survival of the estate. He isn't as free as Gwaine.

“Well, let's say that I'd happily swap mine for yours.”

“Don't be so quick to say that,” Gwaine says darkly, leaving Arthur wondering what ghosts haunt his friend. He determines to alleviate his worries in any way he can.

“More brandy?” Arthur asks, unable to voice his determination but willing to take a step towards making things easier between himself and Gwaine. Friends and good company, more of which will be had tomorrow, should help him gain that end.

“Always, my friend, always.”

They're both in their cups when they leave the dining room. Arthur's legs definitely feel wobbly when he tries the hallway and though he can walk in a perfectly straight line, he feels his temples throbbing. “I'll go take a breath of fresh air,” Arthur says, clapping a hand on Gwaine's shoulder.

“Good night, Princess Arthur,” says Gwaine with a wink.

“Night, Gwaine,” Arthur says, before heading towards the French windows.

The garden air is as cool and refreshing as Arthur wished it to be but there's no taking a stroll tonight. There's no moon out and all paths are thrown in darkness, shaded by trees and the absence of any light whatsoever.

Before he can stupidly twist his ankle just a few days prior to their hunting session, he decides to walk back inside.

His mind has cleared noticeably anyway. Hands in his pockets, he gets back into the house, climbing the stairs to the second floor. He's halfway down the darker end of the corridor when he sees Gwaine. 

He stands out because he's outlined by the light coming from his own bedroom. “Merlin,” Gwaine says with a gentle chuckle, “did you fall asleep waiting?”

Arthur doesn't hear what Merlin says from his end but he makes out the fall of his step as he appears at the door.

“Well, that's quite touching, but I can undress on my own,” Gwaine says in reply to whatever Merlin just said that Arthur didn't make out.

“Remind me to be a selfish dick in future,” Merlin mutters loudly enought for Arthur to catch the words.

“You're so pretty you could get away with it,” Gwaine says. On the one hand that statement's so Gwaine Arthur shouldn't do a double take. During their Cambridge days Gwaine made passes at everyone, friends, acquaintances, waiters, hotel staff, opera singers even. On the other, there's a slightly breathless quality to the delivery that makes Arthur rethink the casual nature of the advance.

“Told you, remind me of that when I want to do someone a good turn,” Merlin says, huffing before disappearing back into the chamber, where Arthur can't see him. “Now do you want my help?”

“Yeah,” says Gwaine, “I'm drunk enough to have unlearnt how to undo cuffs. Curse Princess Arthur and his good brandy.”

Merlin's laughter is like the tinkle of a bell, friendly and intimate.

Arthur leans against the wall and closes his eyes, a thirst for honest intimacy unmooring him to the core.

Gwaine steps into his room, closing the door behind him with a loud slam.

He didn't even notice Arthur was there, a witness to his midnight exchange with his valet. He doesn't know Arthur found himself longing he was Gwaine for a brief spell. 

After a moment to centre and remind himself what a fool he's being, Arthur pushes off the wall to find his own bedroom.

 

****

 

The rest of the company joins them the day after. They come in trickles. Morgana comes by motor, a friend of hers driving her and departing after a quick coffee. Mithian arrives forty minutes later than Morgana. The men all turn up when the sun has gone down for the day, Leon and Lancelot walking from the station. When Arthur asks why on earth they traipsed all the way from there when Arthur could have sent the chauffeur, Lancelot answers, “The distance was easily covered and I felt your poor chauffeur should be allowed some free time so close to Christmas.”

Leon sighs. “What he says.” Once Lancelot's safely upstairs, Leon tells Arthur, “He was immoveable. He wouldn't hear of disturbing the staff paid to be so inconvenienced.”

Arthur gives Leon a pat on the back. “You know he's like that. Nice and charitable. Besides, I bet he thinks that could have been him. He wasn't born wealthy.”

Leon doesn't answer him directly. “Do you know how many miles lie between here and the station?”

“Three?” Arthur guesses. He's made the walk often, especially as a school boy, but he isn't sure he's paid attention to defining its length.

“Four and a half,” Leon says, his eyebrow pushing up. “Four and a half miles through frozen mud.”

“I'll ask the servants to get a bath ready for you.”

Geraint appears shortly before the supper gong is sounded.

Compared to the previous one, dinner is a much more complicated affair. If at all possible there are more courses than were to be had yesterday and more rituals to observe. Chatter is a constant. Around the table neighbour talks to neighbour. Mithian and Leon converse over their mutual love of London art hot spots. Morgana pokes fun at Gwaine and Geraint respectively while Geraint fails to take this in his stride. And Gwaine... Gwaine flirts with everyone, making Arthur wonder if he's really interested in the people he's courting or whether his attitude is just routine for him. If Gwaine's flirting is genuine then Arthur has to wonder about Merlin. As a servant, he can of course expect very little, but if he loves Gwaine he will be hurt.

Arthur's stomach closes up. Lancelot is the first to notice. “You're not hungry?”

“No, I,” Arthur says, looking for words that will make sense. “I think I ate more than enough anyway.”

Lancelot nods wisely. “Maybe this party is a strain on you? Too early after your father's passing, perhaps?”

Arthur compresses his lips. “No, in fact, it's just the right thing for me.”

“You're the best judge of that,” Lancelot says, rearranging the glasses on the table. “But I do worry.”

“There is no need to,” Arthur says, a smile forming on his lips at Lancelot's words and the way they express his concern. “I'm fine. Mine were just idle thoughts.”

“I just hope you'll take your time to get over your grief,” Lancelot says, his voice a study in modulation. "You don't have to be all right. You can mourn in whichever way you choose."

Arthur nods before Morgana enrols him back into the more general conversation.

 

****

The ladies retire to the drawing room. Leon and Geraint smoke. Lancelot, who doesn't believe the activity is healthy, passes. Arthur and Gwaine break open the port and share the glasses around. The conversation takes place in pockets. Leon and Geraint discuss the stock market and their investments in American bonds. They try to encourage Lancelot to pitch his money in.

“I wish I could,” Lancelot says, poking at the fire in the fireplace, “but, alas, I don't have that kind of money to invest.”

“Yes, well,” Gwaine says, beating Arthur to it, “I could lend you some.”

“No,” Lancelot says, before Arthur can make a similar offer. “I have to cut my own path.”

“Well, that's an admirable proposition,” Geraint says, toasting Lancelot.

After the glasses have gone round a couple of times they rejoin the ladies. Now that they have more company Mithian suggests they dance but Morgana down-votes that option in favour of challenging the men at billiards. “I'll prove I'm better than all of you, gentlemen.”

“That's hardly possible,” Geraint says, without knowing that'll make Morgana even more stubborn.

They adjourn to the billiards room, where Morgana proceeds to challenge each and every man in the house. Because he knows Morgana and her game tactics well, Arthur ends up winning by a few scant points.

“Rematch!” she says, pointing the cue at his chest as though it's the end of a blade.

“I'm tired, Morgana,” Arthur says, putting his own cue down. “I really want to call it a night and I'm sure Leon and Lancelot are tired too.”

“And I'm tired of being dismissed because I'm a woman, because I'm not a--”

Arthur shakes his head. “It's just pool, Morgana. We'll play tomorrow.”

“You can teach me how to play tomorrow,” Mithian says, taking Morgana's free hand in hers. “Give me pointers. I'm sure I'll need them.”

“You're very sweet, Mithian,” Morgana says, the corners of her lips lifting before they level again. “But your diversion isn't helpful.”

“Well, I dare say a rematch on the morrow is only fair,” Geraint says, butting in the girls' discussion.

“Thank you,” Morgana snipes, “I was only waiting for your approval.”

“Why don't we all go to sleep?” Lancelot says, salvaging the situation.

Arthur's guests all file upstairs minus Arthur himself. The brush off with Morgana, the knowledge that this holiday was also planned to clear the air between them, to make them or break them, keeps him on edge. More than he would care to admit aloud.

He seeks sanctuary in the library. Cabal sitting at his feet, he sprawls in the armchair closest to the fireplace. He has a glass in his hand, the amber liquid taking on a special glow from the fire, the right side of his face warmed by it. As he tries to concentrate on his reading, he absently pets Cabal.

The paper rustles as he turns it.

With a lurching tremble, the door creaks open. Steps resound. “I'm sorry,” Merlin says, treading from side to side, the floorboards moaning under his weight. “I thought no one would be here.”

Arthur puts down his copy of the _Agricultural Journal._ “I told you you could use the library. You're entitled to it now.”

“I can't sleep and I've done my bit for the day,” Merlin says, more proper and less defiant than he was the other day. “I just... the library here is... it's got books.”

Arthur turns in his armchair, beholding Merlin in the glory of his night-shirt coupled with a pair of old trousers and thick woollen socks. “Did you think a library wouldn't have books?”

“Well, Gwaine's sold his father's.”

“That's like him,” Arthur says, folding the paper he was reading. “His way of rebelling.”

“He's not doing it because he's unfeeling,” Merlin says, regaining some of his old bravado in his defence of Gwaine. “He's just... very clear about who he's not. Like his father.”

The words make Arthur's heart contract, once and sharply. Respect for Merlin also waxes by the moment, the more so since his vindication is honest, sincere, all feelings Arthur's not often been witness to. “I've known Gwaine longer than you, you know.”

“Then you know he's the good sort,” Merlin says, his gaze getting vacant, as if it's getting lost in a haze of memories, pleasant ones by the looks of it.

Arthur experiences a longing to be thought of in the same terms Merlin thinks of Gwaine, and by someone like Merlin too, whose heart is patently in the right place. “I know that, yeah. Or I wouldn't put up with him.” He adds the last part in a lighter tone but Merlin doesn't seem to take it amiss.

“I think you do know him.”

“I have tales.”

“You had the same education right?” Merlin asks, tentative once again. “You went to the same university,” he breathes out the last word in an awed tone.

“Cambridge, yes.”

Merlin nods. “When I was younger I thought books were boring,” he says, seemingly apropos nothing. “Now I know that's not true and that learning is important. I would have loved to have the chance.”

“You're hardly an old man, Merlin.”

“You talk as if you are,” Merlin points out, advancing further into the room, the way Cabal would make himself at ease in a new place, slowly inspecting it and then appropriating it the moment he deems it safe. “But that's not true either.”

“I have a decade on you, I gather, more or less.”

“That's not lots.”

“Time is...” Arthur thinks aloud. “Strange. Seven months ago I'd have said it was nothing. Tonight...”

Merlin pushes his lips together as if to refrain from asking. Going by the light in his eyes, Arthur knows though that he's guessed what Arthur's talking about. Gwaine must have told him about Uther's death. Given that Arthur doesn't trust this reciprocity of silence will last long, he breaks the quiet first. “So books,” Arthur says, studying the shelves. “You were here for one. What would you like to read?”

“I'm not that good yet,” Merlin says, with a wry twist to his mouth. “At reading. I've learnt interesting new words but I was going to go for something easy.”

“Children's books then,” Arthur says, rising to his feet to go search the shelves.

“Don't be supercilious now.”

Arthur's swipes a thumb along the first shelf that's come to his attention when he bursts out laughing and in such a high pitch as he hasn't given in to in months. “I presume that's one of your new words.”

“Oh no,” Merlin says, moving over to come stand side by side with Arthur. “Those would be insults. Insults for supercilious clotpoles who think that just because I'm a bit behind, I can only read books meant for children.”

“Adults can find a wealth of surprises in children books,” Arthur says, shoving a copy of the _Book of Nonsense_ in Merlin's arms. “Read this, you'll appreciate the message.”

Merlin opens the first page, raising a cloud of dust his nostrils quiver at. He reads aloud, “ _There was an Old Man with a beard, Who said, It is just as I feared-- Two Owls and a Hen, Four Larks and a Wren, Have all built their nests in my beard._ ” Merlin looks up from his reading, eyes wrinkling deeply at the corners. “I do think this is my type of stuff.”

“Well, the author was Irish,” Arthur says, leaning against the shelf, poking at Merlin's fringe with his fingers. “Just like you.”

Merlin's chest rises and falls with a sigh that's also got something of the sniff about it. “Except, I'm not an author, just a country boy.”

“But a remarkable one.”

“Why, I've surprised you.”

“No.” Convinced that Merlin's done no such thing, Arthur shakes his head. “You haven't.”

“Well, I'm going to shock you now,” Merlin says, extending the book towards him. “Teach me.”

“Teach you?” Arthur asks, not sure what exactly Merlin wants him to instruct him on.

“Yeah,” Merlin says, his grip on the book visibly tightening. “How to read the harder words, how...” Merlin ducks his head. “You're busy or sleepy or... Never mind me.”

Arthur clamps an arm around Merlin's bicep. “I don't have much to teach. As a boy I much preferred outdoor sports and I'm not as well read as Cousin Morgana. But I did receive a good education thanks to my station. That is at your service.”

“Thank you,” Merlin says, his lips stretching taut in a blinding grin. “I'll, uh, do my best.”

Arthur gets Merlin to settle in one of the armchairs and bids him read an article out of his copy of the _Agricultural Journal_ before he lets him open the Lear book. When Merlin stumbles over the longest and most field-specific words, Arthur gives him time to wrap his tongue around them. Only when Merlin fails does he make suggestions. When Merlin asks, he explains to the best of his abilities.

The clock strikes four before Arthur's voice gets hoarse and Merlin tells him to go to sleep. Embarrassment pricking his skin, Arthur says, “Of course, good night.”

Crisp sheets under him, it takes Arthur a while to fall asleep.

 

***** 

 

As the morning draws in, a faint mist rises from the ground. He hears the batters in the wood as they stomp through the undergrowth, whistling and giving out vocal calls, batting against the branches to make a stir that will be used to detect the prey. The birds hiding amidst their foliage scatter in fright.

The pheasants they've been banking to find call in response and take flight.

“Over on the left!” Geraint calls, the muzzle of his rifle following the birds trajectory. He shoots.

The pheasants break, a bouquet of them shooting up towards the sky, flushed.

One of Geraint's loaders receives the empty rifle; the second one provides his master with a new and charged weapon.

Arthur takes aim and fires. “Cabal,” he says, but there's no response, no answering wag of tail or bark. Arthur looks around. Cabal is absent.

 

*****

 

“We'll help you find him,” says Lancelot with a pat to his back.

“I suppose I'll keep my 'it was only a dog' statement to myself and vow, like friend Lancelot here, to help you search for your missing dog,” Gwaine says, shouldering his two rifles while Merlin, who's acting as his loader today, lollops behind him.

“Yes, we'll help you, dear,” Mithian says, squeezing his hand.

Arthur scans the forest for traces of his stray dog but none appear. “Yes, thank you. Thanks to all of you.”

 

*****

 

Old boots on, Arthur goes searching the woods. He roams them, whistling the whistle that makes Cabal run to him. No dog turns up though he startles a hare.

His friends do the rounds of the property as well, each taking a different direction, the same goes for the servants that can be spared from house duties. This means a variety of under-footmen prowl the property in search of Cabal.

Gwaine takes the car to try the road. Maybe Cabal found his way there, he says, speculating on what might have happened.

Night sets in and the woods become too dangerous to tread. Arthur calls the search off for the day. He doesn't want anybody to get injured. He loves Cabal, he does, but he's not going to endanger his guests. The moment they reach the house rain starts falling, pounding the ground hard, leashing the gravel.

Arthur ensconces himself in the morning room, which offers a great view of the park. In the darkness he can only make out the top of the trees as they're bathed in moonlight. He can only see the boughs shaking in the rough wind. No trace of any living creature makes itself visible.

A white halo takes over the woods around Avalon Park.

It's cold out there, not freezing, but the temperature can hardly be rising much above zero. Even though his coat is thick, Cabal must be feeling it. Arthur hopes he survives.

Grabbing a paraffin lantern, Arthur turns around and stalks to the door.

He doesn't ring for George. He'd only get the house in an uproar if he did. He grabs a mac from the coat-stand and leaves the house, making for the park and the woods beyond.

After a minute or so he's soaked to the bone. Rain pelts his face and plasters his hair to his head. Ahead, thunder rolls across the dark purple horizon. A clap of thunder rends his ears and makes the small hair at his nape curl in atavistic dread. As he advances, leaving the drive path behind, he slips on the muddy ground several times.

Though the lamp sheds an aura of light ahead of him, he can barely distinguish any of the landscape features.

He's half blind from squinting against the rain and can't hear a thing aside from the howling of the wind and the roll of thunder that periodically splits the air. He puts one step in front of the other but can hardly make out shapes in the distance.

Unease spikes in his gut. He's glad he's the only one out here tonight, the more so when he stumbles into a root and crashes to his knees. Pain spikes through his kneecaps and envelops his stomach in a wave of queasiness. “God damn,” he curses under his breath, his voice muted by the howl of the wind.

The crack of branches that comes to his attention isn't muffled though. The thought it could be an armed poacher shooting in the dark sends his blood pumping faster, though instead of spreading heat through his limbs, it freezes them. “Who's there?” he calls out, sharply and in a voice that's powerful enough to drown out the wind's lament.

“My Lord?” Merlin's voice comes from the depths of the darkness.

Arthur lifts his lantern. “Merlin?” he asks, not sure if it's truly Merlin or some eldritch apparition haunting the woods.

A figure of a man huddled in dark clothing appears, each of his steps teasing the foliage underfoot. He's carrying Cabal in his arms, the dog's fur looking wet and streaked with mud, a paw bloodied. “It's me, yes.”

With a grunt of pain, Arthur labours himself to a standing position. “Cabal,” Arthur says to be greeted by the dog's snap of a bark. Once he's recovered from his surprise, Arthur puts two and two together really fast. Merlin went out alone to look for Arthur's dog. That's moving and stupid all at once. “You shouldn't be out in this storm! It's dangerous and I gave a precise order about it.”

“Hey, you're out here too!” Merlin points out, taking another wobbling step towards him, the armful of dog making his advance a tentative one.

“That's my dog we're talking about!” Arthur says, lifting his chin at the dog cosily enfolded in Merlin's arms. “That's different.”

“Look,” Merlin says, rolling his eyes. “I was the only one who could really find him so stop being a proud lordling, thank me, and be done.”

“How could you possibly be the only one able to find my dog!” Arthur asks, bewildered.

Merlin begins waddling back towards the house. “I just was.”

“Cabal was more likely to respond to me than you,” Arthur says, pointing out what he knows to be true.

“If he was lost,” Merlin says, huffing and sneezing, “you'd have been right.”

“What do you mean?” Arthur asks, at pains to catch up with Merlin with his knees still smarting.

“I mean,” Merlin says, a few words every three strides or so, “that I can detect a scam when I see one.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Merlin marches on, shifting the dog in his arms from time to time. His pace quickens once they get on the more even grounds of the lawn.

“Merlin, what does that mean?”

Panting, Merlin says, “Can we talk about that inside?”

Merlin is as drenched as Arthur is. Water is pouring down his neck and off his nose. Rain streams off his shoulders. To complete the image of misery, his fringe is stuck to his forehead in wet streaks, his eyelids are semi-closed against the lash of the wind, and his nose is red. 

“Yes, yes, of course.” Head ducked, Arthur rushes to the door to keep it open for Merlin. Out of a mutual understanding they head for the living room upstairs. “Get that blanket,” Merlin says, winging his eyebrow in the general direction of the piece of square plaid thrown over the settee.

Arthur brings it over to Merlin. “Here.”

Merlin grabs the blanket and wraps the dog in it, drying him and studying Cabal's paw for injuries. “The good news is it's just a scratch. The bad news is you'll need a veterinarian anyway, I think.”

Relief bursts through Arthur. “I think we'll easily find one in the morning.”

Cabal barks animatedly. The warmth must be restoring him just as it's doing Arthur.

“Come,” Arthur says, dragging Merlin by the forearm and placing him by the fire place. “And sit here till I come back.”

“What, no!” Merlin says in stubborn protest.

“Merlin, sit down and take an order like a reasonable man, will you.”

“I'm not your dog!” Merlin says, pushing onto his knees until Arthur stabs a finger at his chest and he backs down.

Arthur leaves the room glaring. When he comes back he has a pile of towels and blankets with him. He took them from his bedroom. Without having access to the linen cupboards – the housekeeper has the keys – it's the best he can do at such short notice.

“Dry yourself,” Arthur says, dropping one of the towels on top of Merlin's head and knuckling his scalp down so as to mop some of the excess water up.

The towel hanging like a veil in front of his face, Merlin splutters, “Not until you do too.”

“I have no plans to freeze here,” Arthur says, mopping at his own hair and face.

Merlin harrumphs but more or less complies.

“Get out of that shirt, too.” Arthur tilts his head, indicating said garment. “It's sticking to you.”

“Only--”

“If I do it too.” Arthur starts undoing the collar of his shirt. “I'm beginning to get you.”

“You think you do,” Merlin says, unfastening his cuffs. “But you don't.”

As Merlin rids himself of his wet shirt, he stops hunching in on himself. His greyish skin takes on a normal colour again. As that happens, Arthur's concern diminishes and something else replaces it. Arthur realises that under those clothes of his Merlin hides a lovely body. His shoulders are as wide as a sportsman's while his sides are lean. He has a few scars scattered along his chest but they don't mar the clean lines of him.

His own fingers stutter over the buttons of his shirt. “Okay, you think I don't understand you. Help me do so then.”

Merlin turns his head to the side. “I don't see how.”

“Start telling me how you found my dog.”

Merlin's head snaps back for a stare. “You still haven't guessed.”

“I'm asking,” Arthur points out, towelling his chest dry.

Merlin dries himself up too, but does so half-heartedly, droplets still skimming down his forearms. “Someone took your dog.”

“Whatever for?” Such a thought doesn't make sense. Cabal might come along for hunts but he's no real hunting dog and has no value on the market.

“Money,” Merlin says, raising his shoulders to his ears. “Whatever else for?”

“Cabal isn't a hunting dog and he isn't a pure breed,” Arthur says. He found Cabal in a ditch two years ago. He was little more than a puppy, all covered in filth and mud, his fur matted. He'd taken him home with a view to give it to Morgana. Morgana had turned her nose down at the notion and he'd kept the hound himself. “He wouldn't fetch anything.”

“If you sold him, yeah,” Merlin says, wiping down the length of his chest, skin now glowing with the warm colour the fire's lending it. “But if someone asked you for money to get him back... you'd pay because you love your dog.”

“You're saying that someone would stoop that low.”

“For some food on their table?” Merlin asks, his voice roughening with a note of bitterness Arthur can't explain. “You're... You're honourable, I get that. Not waking the servants at night. Going out for your dog yourself. You're not bad for a landowner. But there are things you can't understand.”

“Because of my position?” As soon as the question's asked Arthur knows it to be redundant.

“There are some things that your position will prevent you from even thinking, let alone realising.”

“But not you?” Arthur asks, as he watches the reflection of the flames from the fireplace leap across Merlin's face.

“Not me.”

Arthur reaches out to skim at one of Merlin's scars with his thumb. “What's your story?”

Merlin exhales hard. “I thought Gwaine told you.”

Arthur drops his hand, a wash of cold travelling up from his fingertips. “No, he didn't say anything.”

“Gwaine is great but sometimes his tongue can get away from him.” Merlin twiddles his thumbs in his lap. “Besides, you two are old friends, I thought he would have said.”

“Evidently he counts you for a dear friend too,” Arthur says, covering his shoulders with the blanket. “More than... because he's curbed his tongue for you and said nothing. He's usually much more garrulous.”

Merlin doesn't say anything to that. “In a way I'm glad he didn't.”

“Of course you'd be glad of his loyalty,” Arthur says, eyes cast down.

“I wouldn't want you to think badly of me,” Merlin says hurriedly, doing as Arthur did and hiding under his blanket.

Arthur laughs at that, lifting his eyes to have a look at Merlin. “You rescued my dog, Merlin. I couldn't possibly think badly of you.”

Merlin's mouth turns down. “No, of course not. I've made myself useful for once.”

“Merlin,” Arthur says, covering his hand. “It's not like that.”

Merlin stares at their hands, his mouth curling up at the sides. “Okay, all right. Thanks accepted.”

After one further squeeze Arthur lets go of Merlin's hand. “You've omitted to mention who the culprit in the dog case is.”

“I won't tell you who it is,” Merlin says, lifting his chin. “For reasons of my own. Isn't it enough that you've got him back?”

“Yes, yes, that's enough.”

The fire crackles in snaps and bursts, breaking in on his thoughts.

“I should go,” Merlin says, dropping his blanket and grabbing his still wet shirt.

Before Arthur can tell him to stay, he's already gone.

 

*****

 

Arthur sees Merlin again the next day. He's escorting the local veterinary to the door, the latter instructing him on how to deal with Cabal's scratches, when he sees Merlin on top of a ladder, affixing mistletoe to the door.

Freya, the housemaid, is looking up at him, laughing at a joke he must have told.

The moment Merlin skips down the ladder, he says, “Fair's fair,” and kisses Freya on the lips.

The girl goes scarlet and snatches a kiss back.

Arthur smiles. That was just such a nice, wholesome moment. Longing, pure and simple, takes abode in his heart.

 

*****

 

On the twenty-third Arthur gives a Christmas speech to his staff, thanking them for the hard work they've put in so far. “And for the work you're going to do now that Christmas Eve is approaching. Without you the house wouldn't be quite so welcoming as it is or in a shape to continue as it did under my father. So thank you, for that.”

Gaius clears his throat and says, “I think I'm talking on behalf of all of the staff I oversee when I say I couldn't be gladder than to be working here at Avalon Manor as always, Your Grace.”

“Thank you, Gaius,” Arthur says with a nod. 

“And if I might add,” Gaius says, his eyebrow climbing, “I'll also say that your administration of the estate is as good as your father's.”

“And certainly more appreciated,” young Daegal says.

Arthur would defend his father if tears weren't stinging at his eyes. “I thank you all.”

Forridel advances, carrying a plate with a slice of cake arranged on it. “For you, Your Grace. It's just out of the oven.”

Hand cradling it for crumbs, Arthur's biting onto the last morsel of cake when he runs into Merlin in the hallway leading to the kitchens.

On seeing him, Merlin smiles. “Your Grace,” he greets him, a wide smile firmly in place.

“Merlin.” Arthur gulps down the rest of the cake. “What brings you downstairs?”

“Servant, remember.”

Arthur nods.

“I need some thread for one of Gwaine's shirts,” Merlin further explains though Arthur hasn't pressed him. “Maybe Freya will help me darn it. I'm truly horrible at darning.”

“You're an excellent dog rescuer but a bad valet, Merlin.”

Merlin doesn't take offence at that. “A year ago you would have been right, but I'm mostly good these days.”

Arthur doesn't know what to say, only that he almost wants to kiss Merlin. “Yes, it's good that you're good.”

“You're contradicting yourself.” A tiny frown line appears on Merlin's forehead. “A moment ago you were saying I was a bad valet.”

The floorboards creaking announces the passage of a third party along the corridor. Merlin cranes his neck to see who it is and Arthur stops babbling arguments in the defence of his diatribe powers.

“You've got sugar on your cheek,” Merlin says, brushing a quick finger along Arthur's cheek before whistling off towards the kitchens.

 

****

 

Feeling full on Christmas turkey and assorted sweets, Arthur sits heavily at the foot of his bed, stretching his legs out in front of him.

A knock at the door rouses him from his post-meal languor.

He opens his door, expecting to find anybody on the other side but the person who's actually there. “Merlin,” he breathes out rather heavily.

Merlin pushes inside and locks the door behind him.

Arthur opens his mouth to welcome Merlin in, but Merlin turns him around and backs him against the door, placing his lips on his before Arthur has the opportunity to put a word in edgewise. His lips fitting against Arthur's with precision, his tongue lightly sipping at Arthur's mouth, Merlin kisses him.

He does so slowly, softly, lips rubbing gently against his, opening his mouth with his by increments, enmeshing them together in a wet riot of a kiss. There’s no resistance from Arthur. It doesn't even occur to him to object because this is what he's wanted for a while, if he's honest with himself. Without even catching his breath he pushes closer instead and realigns his face in relation to Merlin's.

With staggering élan, he welcomes the feel of Merlin's lips on his own, the solidity of Merlin's hip under his hand giving him balance. His heart races painfully in his chest but he likes the sensation. His nerve endings burn more the shorter on oxygen he gets, but that's the thrill of it.

Drawing back, Merlin parts their mouths, leaving behind just a bit of moisture as he ends the caress. “Did I guess right?” Merlin asks, as if on his last runaway breath. “Is this what you want?”

“Yes,” Arthur says, looking to ground himself, his chest rising quickly. “You guessed right. I-- I want you.”

Turning his head, Arthur catches Merlin's mouth with his. In between each slide of their lips, they breathe, keen and hot, and their hands roam. Arthur grabs Merlin's face to deepen the kiss, make it more intimate; testing the bounds of what Merlin likes as he alternates the amount of pressure he excercises.

With short gasps Merlin eggs him on, his hand snaking between their chests and settling on his hipbones. He dips his finger below the waistband of Arthur's silk pyjamas, dragging his thumb along the length of bone. It's more electrifying than it has any right to be. 

Slipping his fingers through Merlin's hair, Arthur nips at Merlin's mouth. In turn Merlin presses into him, furthering the contact between their bodies. Grinding against Merlin, Arthur responds in kind. He latches onto his throat, probing and stroking at Merlin's skin with his tongue. As Arthur bites at the stretched thin flesh, Merlin groans. He even arches his head back to give Arthur better access. A rumble -- half chuckle, half laughter -- comes from deep within his chest. “Bed?” Arthur asks, ascertaining whether Merlin wants to proceed and take them past foreplay and into full intimacy territory.

“Yes,” Merlin says. “It's going to be an adventure.”

“How so?” Arthur asks, rasping his teeth along the downside of Merlin's jaw.

“I've never lain in such a big bed.”

“Not even with Gwaine?” Arthur asks, before he can think that he probably shouldn't.

“Gwaine?” The furrow on Merlin's brow is expressive of his lack of understanding.

“You two are very close,” Arthur says, his hurried delivery an attempt to dismiss the topic.

“You think...” Merlin's mouth slowly falls open. “We're friends. He gave me a chance. We're close because we are, but not like that.”

“Forgive me,” Arthur says, ducking his head. “I shouldn't have assumed. I don't have that kind of closeness with anybody and I thought--”

“Let me remedy that,” Merlin says, pushing him towards the bed. On the way there, he undoes the top of Arthur's pyjamas and pushes it off his shoulders; at the same time Arthur rids Merlin of his black waistcoat and white shirt.

“Take your trousers off too,” Merlin says, while undoing his.

Pulling down his pyjamas is easy even with hands as feverish as Arthur's are now. He need do nothing more than pull the unresisting fabric down.

When they're both naked, Merlin lets Arthur sink against the bed, his back to the fresh covers, and rolls over him, his hands planted in the cushions on either side of Arthur's head.

Arthur's hands holding Merlin's jaw within their cradle, his fingers trail patterns along the warm flesh behind Merlin's ears and the sharp jut of cheekbone and chin. With a loud, pleased exhale, Merlin lowers his mouth to his.

Loving to be on the receiving end of Merlin's kiss, Arthur parts his lips to Merlin's tongue, giving of himself in return, basking in an intimacy that is rare for him. He drowns in the feeling. Because of the heat of the kiss his lungs start to feel as though they're on fire, burning on nothing. His chest feels incredibly tight, like a cage something inside him is breaking out of. 

Breaking for air he throws his head back on the pillow. A soft inhale sounds like a harsh noise in the still air. He'd be ashamed of how exposed it makes him sound, if he didn't want Merlin to know him the way nobody here does.

Tracing Arthur’s jawbone with his lips, Merlin skims his neck with them, licking at the dip in his collar bone before caressing the wet hollow with his mouth.

Heart drumming to a steadily heightened cadence, Arthur seeks Merlin with his body, his arms going around him.

Tenderly, Merlin's rubs his lips along Arthur’s hairline, pets him with kisses, the palm of his hands stroking up his flanks. Like water lapping at a shore, Arthur moans and rolls his hips upwards. When Merlin responds by bearing down, electricity pierces Arthur.

Merlin nibbles at his lips. At that Arthur shudders and the moment Merlin brings their hips together Arthur cannot stay still, so that within seconds they’re gently rocking together. In this position Arthur can't be unaware of Merlin's prodding hardness poking at him.

“Merlin,” he rasps, his palms coasting the span of Merlin's back to stop at his hips, Merlin's skin soft there, taut over the rise of his pelvis.

Their foreheads pressed together, noses aligned from bridge to tip, their breath heavy between them, they move in counterpoint. Arthur's hands shifting along bone, anchoring him safely to something simple and in the moment, preventing him from coming undone just yet.

Once more Merlin's lips find the softness of his throat, where he scatters kisses like rain, a hot rain that melts Arthur at the spine, makes him incoherent to the point that only half-choked sounds are passing his lips. Against this onslaught, he has a hard time even keeping his eyes open and focused.

His own body trapped within the rhythms of upward motion, he's the shore to Merlin's tide, the rock Merlin drifts against,. Thought rarefies as the heat pooling in his belly increases. Everything goes softer at the edges as his cock firms even more, leaking steadily between them.

“I think.” Arthur licks his lip in an effort at grounding himself and finding enough presence of mind to utter a string of words. “I think I'll be spending if you don't--” He doesn't know what to say; he doesn't know how to put his need into words. Although he wants to push and push against Merlin's heat and find the hard lines of his body crash against his, he also wants to stretch the moment.

Even though he might not have been able to articulate what he wants, Merlin gives him exactly what he needs.

With a low sob, Merlin turns them around so Arthur's the one blanketing him, and latches onto his lips. They trade a kiss that warms Arthur to the core, their bare erections catching one against the other, come dribbling hot and sticky between them.

The sound Merlin releases is high pitched, one that Arthur should silence with a kiss so they're not caught, but one that Arthur lets fly free. “Arthur!” he calls out, eyelids fluttering, the shadows contouring his face making Arthur want to kiss every obscure path they form.

Mouth grazing shadow lines and bone structure, Arthur presses down into Merlin.

Lips falling open, Merlin goes rigid, his eyes opening into a shock of unfocused blue, the pupil wide. “Make me,” Merlin says, biting at Arthur's chin, “make me come.”

Arthur only wants to fulfil that wish. “Mmm,” Arthur says. “I'll love to.”

Merlin touches his fingers to Arthur's face, locking gazes as if he's looking for something. “I would never have thought I'd end up some place like this,” he says and it's too cryptic for Arthur to understand at such a moment, so he seals their mouths together with a kiss, his hand snaking between them so he can wrap it around Merlin.

At the contact Merlin's breath hitches sharply, like words hushed in prayer.

Slowly, Arthur slides his hand up and down Merlin's cock, his thumb moving in circles, pressing on the spot that makes Merlin's chest rise and his breathing falter. With the rough pad of his thumb, he rubs where the shaft meets the flare of skin. “More,” Merlin demands, though his voice is so wrecked it's hardly fit for orders.

Rolling his hand up and down Merlin's prick, Arthur asks, “Like this? Is this enough?”

Merlin nods, making little keening sounds. As Arthur pumps him, running his hand quicker and quicker along the length of him, Merlin's eyes firmly close. Under the continuous stimulation, Merlin gasps and gasps, fragile noises coming out of him as if he's dissolving. With a twist of his wrist, Arthur works Merlin's cock and semen shoots out all over Arthur's hand and Merlin's belly.

By then Merlin is all red, a flush spreading from torso to hairline. His mouth, soft and plump, gapes open, releasing a satisfied sound. When Arthur lets it go, his cock lies softer and still red against his thigh.

Arthur has never seen a more gorgeous sight, he doesn't think.

The decision is taken. Bracing himself on one arm, he wraps a palm around himself and fucks into his own hand. Biting his tongue, he goes harder and harder on his own flesh.

From them on there's no stopping his ride towards orgasm. His stomach drops, his cock throbs, and then pleasure rips through him, as fast as a punch. He comes all over Merlin's belly and cock, his own come mixing with Merlin's, staining his flesh milky white. The breath, if he has any left at that pass, is taken from his lungs at the sight.

Cupping his own groin in an instinctive gesture, he crashes on the blankets at Merlin's side, his ribcage expanding and deflating. “I-- I'm sorry if I made a mess of you. I--”

“That was good,” Merlin's voice wafts over to him. “You're completely excused... Your grace.”

Arthur laughs. His title has never sounded more comical than in this particular context.

 

***** 

 

After a long, lazy nap, they both wake. It works like this: Arthur does first but he shifts, the mattress sighing, and then Merlin follows him into torpor-filled wakefulness.

“I'll go before dawn,” he says, eyeing the door as though someone will interrupt their intimacy.

Arthur knows he's not far off the mark but there is time for that. “Stay until eight. George never comes before then.”

“What if somebody wakes early?” Merlin asks, burrowing an arm under the pillow as he rucks the blanket up. “And sees me sneaking out?”

“I know society is what it is, but if we're discreet, we can do this,” Arthur says, kissing Merlin's bare shoulder. “Besides, I'm not ashamed of you."

“You should be,” Merlin says, reading his face. “Ashamed of me, I mean.”

Arthur's laughter is short lived and clipped. There's class distinctions and then there is this, thinking they matter in the bedroom. “Because you're a servant?”

Merlin's mouth thins. “No, that's honest work. Any servant is worth more than a score of nobles.”

“Then what are you even talking about, Merlin?” Arthur asks, his arms going around the lump that's Merlin's body makes under the covers.

“You're an upright person.” Merlin seems to be keen on observing the stitching on the pillow case, the grosgrain pattern at the edges. “An honourable one. That's why you'd be ashamed of me.”

Arthur's brain sets to working double time. “That implies you think you did something dishonourable.”

“I did.” Mouth pursed, Merlin bobs his head. “I didn't think it very wrong at the time, of course. But it was.”

“You're worrying me,” Arthur says, putting a kiss to Merlin's temple before settling back against his own pillow to give Merlin space. “Out with it.”

Merlin fetches a big juddering sigh. “I wasn't born a valet.”

Arthur plays it for humour. “Nobody is.”

“Ha, ha,” Merlin says and though Arthur's interruption was probably inappropriate, he smiles. “When Gwaine met me.... I was a thief.”

“A thief!” Air pushes out of Arthur's lungs.

“I never hurt anyone!” Merlin hurries to say, his hand around Arthur's elbow, clamping down instinctively in a pleading gesture. “But I picked pockets for a living and I picked Gwaine's and he tracked me down and he said I had to repay him by working for him.”

“Slow down, slow down.” The amount of information Merlin's filled that sentence with is more than Arthur's brain can process in such a short time. “You mean to say that you got your job by robbing Gwaine?”

“Yes,” Merlin says. “As repayment for what I'd taken from him. I wasn't meant to be paid that first year to make up for what I did. To pay him back of the sum I got from him. But then he... gave me extra money to save the life of my friend's mother.”

That does sound like Gwaine. “I see,” Arthur says.

“You're hugely disappointed in me, aren't you?” Merlin asks, his eyes roving the sheets until they meet Arthur's dead on.

Arthur doesn't answer that question. “Tell me,” he says instead. “Why did you resort to that?”

“To make ends meet.” Merlin's voice is low and his delivery mangled. “Because--”

“Because?” Arthur prompts.

“It's no justification,” Merlin says. “Now I know that. I've met many hard workers since and Gwaine's given me a new start. So I understand now. But back then... I was twelve and on the streets. My mum had just died, Anglo landlord evicted her right before she did. So I should have by all rights gone into an orphanage or the workhouse and I was...”

Arthur can't begin to imagine what that must have been like, so he says nothing. He pulls Merlin to him and kisses the top of his head. Merlin's body doesn't yield though. He's still rigid, his breath pushing out of him in big puffs as he talks. “I was scared, a little. And made a runner. All the way to Cork I ran. And once I was there... I knew no one and no one paid a street urchin any attention.”

“My god, Merlin,” Arthur says, his heart cracking at the notion, especially as he compares his childhood to Merlin's.

“I was too proud to beg,” Merlin says, his tone much more even than before, as though this narrative is alien to him. “Until I wasn't. But even that didn't help. I was a dirty ugly child, all ears and chin. Ladies scurried past and gentlemen... well, they were even less moved.”

“I'm so--” Arthur says, but he stops himself. He doesn't know what to say. 'I'm sorry that happened to you' doesn't quite cut it and he's afraid anything else will stop Merlin from telling him more.

“Hey,” Merlin says, recognising something in Arthur's tone. “I didn't have it too bad. I ran into Will and he taught me how to pick pockets.”

“This Will, he was...” Arthur begins, a measure of worry colouring his tone.

“My best friend ever,” Merlin says. “A bit older and an orphan like me. He learnt the trade from a gang that disbanded because the leader was thrown in the nick. He taught me everything he knew.”

“Oh.” Relief comes at Arthur like a balm.

“So I'd been pick-pocketing a while when I ran into Gwaine and history changed.”

Love for his friend fills Arthur's heart. “I'm ever so glad you picked the right pocket.”

“Me too,” Merlin says with a soft grin that would make saints fall in love as carnally as any cavalier. “He even got Will a job, by and by. He's a caretaker at Saint Paul's.”

Arthur kisses Merlin as gently as he can. “I'm not ashamed of you. We're not all born to... the same advantages. And given what happened to you...”

“If it had been you, you wouldn't have done it,” Merlin says, as though he's weighed Arthur's heart and come to that conclusion for sure.

“You don't know that.” Arthur squeezes Merlin's hip.

“I understand if you don't want to see me again after this. I would never blame you for it.”

“My problem at the moment is that I don't quite want to let you go.”

Merlin's eyes grow wet. He grazes Arthur's mouth with his, his hand fanned across his cheek. “You are amazing. Most people would probably recoil in horror at me.”

“Not Gwaine,” Arthur says, feeling like the worst kind of thief.

“I was lucky running into you two.” Merlin pushes his nose against Arthur's.

Arthur traps Merlin's upper lip between his, releases it with a plop. “I wasn't unfortunate that way either.”

Merlin's ribcage shakes softly. “Does that mean you're not kicking me out of your bed?”

“No, I told you. I want you to stay.”

That he means it indefinitely is a detail Arthur omits.


	3. Revelation by Increments

The hints that something's going on with Merlin – something odd – keep adding up.

On Christmas morning Merlin fails to turn up to dress Gwaine. Merlin's never been very punctual and Gwaine's never been very strict about his appearance so Gwaine lets it go. He does at least until Merlin fails to turn up that night.

That warrants a visit to Merlin's room, which takes Gwaine to the servants quarters. A knock on said door proves the locale to be empty.

“Personally,” George, Arthur's valet, says, “I think he should be sacked on the spot. He's a disgrace to the very name of valet.”

Gwaine wants to sneer at the theatrics but doesn't. “You mean he's not in?”

“Precisely,” George says, waggling his eyebrows.

“And you know where he is?” Gwaine guesses, because that much eyebrow gymnastics must mean something.

A feeling like reluctance must have come over George, because when the time comes to spill, he says, “That's not for me to say.”

“You can't drop a hint and get away with that!” Gwaine exclaims, but the weaselling valet has already fled down the hallway.

The second hint that's something's amiss with Merlin comes on Boxing Day. Facetiously questioned about his whereabouts, Merlin gets cryptic. “Here and there,” he says, doing up Gwaine's cravat, his fingers digging into the love bite that Mithian left there. “You seem not to have missed me.”

“On the contrary,” Gwaine says, never more honest with man or woman. “I missed you quite a lot.”

“At least you had some diversion.”

The third hint that Merlin's egregiously lying to him makes itself manifest on the 29th. A large party turns up at Avalon Park to celebrate the New Year in style. Even the servants themselves are slotted to have a celebration of their own. That ought to have got fun-loving Merlin happy. But all he seems to think about is what's going to happen in the new year. “I suppose we're going back to Marston soon?” Merlin asks, faux casually and completely transparently as he hands Gwaine his cuff links.

“I can't sponge off the Princess indefinitely.” Gwaine says that like it's a punch line to a joke.

“I'm sure Ar- His Grace would love to have you here longer,” Merlin tells him, brushing the sleeves of Gwaine's morning jacket. “His father just died. He needs his friends and he may not say it, but I’m under the impression he counts you among his.”

Merlin's not wrong, but the whole speech sounds odd to Gwaine. For one Merlin's not specially intuitive when it comes to analysing people. He's intuitive as any boy his age, when it comes to feelings, which is to say not much. For another the verisimilitude of that statement is quite uncanny for someone who doesn't know Arthur Pendragon. “You seem to think I should stay longer?” Gwaine says, playing dumb. He's particularly adept at the art, so much so nobody takes him quite seriously.

“Well, yes,” Merlin says, tightening Gwaine's bow tie. “I think it would do the both of you good.”

 

***** 

 

The truth comes spilling out, though not in ways that anybody but Gwaine would be able to suss out, on Twelfth Night.

Reinvigorated by a few glasses of true Scotch Whisky and a rendezvous with the parish choir singer, the lovely Eira, Gwaine stumbles into the drawing room.

It's so late, only Arthur's there, sitting in his armchair, his dog's muzzle in his lap. “Good evening, Princess.”

“I see you had a fine night sowing your wild oats, Gwaine,” Arthur says, a put down hidden behind the remark.

Gwaine's bottom finds the shelter of the armchair opposite Arthur's by sheer luck. “What's life for, eh?”

“Not that,” Arthur says, eyes on the embers of the fire that had lit the fireplace. “Not in the way you do it.”

Probably, Gwaine thinks but doesn't say. “Since when have you been so opinionated about love? I thought it was all business with you,” Gwaine says, poking at a scab that never quite healed in their friendship. “As our youth proves... Arthur Pendragon, always seeking to please his father.”

“Love isn't what you think it is, Gwaine,” Arthur says in the tone of someone who has fathomed the truth about life, death and what comes in between, which might as well be love, Gwaine opines. The know it all.

Gwaine doesn't want to quarrel with Arthur, they have in the past and it's not nice. A devil might be sitting on his shoulder egging him on, telling him to find a chink in Arthur's armour and wound him with his words, but Gwaine silences the imp. “My thoughts on the subject are manifold,” Gwaine settles for saying. “And wiser than you might think them.”

As he leans over to add a log to the mass of firewood that's turned to near charcoal in the fireplace, Arthur's mouth twists. Absent-mindedly, he scratches at his neck, fiddling with the collar of his open shirt. A bruise that sits large along the tendon flashes among the ripples of fabric, disappearing the moment Arthur drops his hand. Understanding dawns.

“One day I'll plumb those thoughts of yours.”

Gwaine stretches his legs in front of him, opening his body up for scrutiny, defying Arthur to read any cageyness in his body language. “I'll give you a teaser: sometimes it's not so hard.”

 

****

 

All the other guests having left, Gwaine's the last of Arthur's friends to say goodbye to Avalon Park. Arthur's farewell is heartfelt but terse. His might not have been a proper parting hug, rather the stiff upper lip version of one, but Gwaine turns it into a fond embrace.

“Till next time,” Arthur says, standing back, his eyes fastening on Merlin, who's standing behind Gwaine. “I'll miss your wisecracks, scapegrace.”

“Who wouldn't miss my winning personality?” Gwaine says, before clapping Arthur on the back one final time.

He and Merlin are speeding down the drive, Merlin's eyes on the rear-view, when Gwaine says, “What say you to coming back in March?"

Merlin's eyes snap to him. “Here you mean?”

Changing gears, Gwaine says. “Easter is just round the bend. Now Arthur might be annoyingly Anglican, but the core idea is the same.”

“Easter?” Merlin repeats, but then his eyes fill with such a sweet light of understanding, Gwaine has to concentrate on the road, or he'll have to say sand just flew into his eyes. “Yeah, falls in March this year.”

 

 

The End.


End file.
